Ashes of a burnt-our star
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: She heals soldiers, because she has been doing that all her life. There are billions of people in the galaxy who do not care whether it is the Republic or the Empire. But there are also those who care, and when she thinks of that, she feels like a traitor. That, and... Weird things have been happening since the battle of Yavin. Or, more precisely, since the destruction of Alderaan.
1. Chapter 1

_Inspiried by a tumblr post by txrkin._

* * *

Everything is ready and in place. Bacta plasters and sprays, bandages, painkillers and adrenals. Clear sterile white sheets in a clear, tidy, sterile med bay. The last moment of calm before the storm.

She knows it well. It is hardly her first battle, after all. It is always different, and yet always the same – the unrest, her heart fluttering with fear – but then, after the first shots are fired, it all melts away. Once the fighting starts, she is calm, focused, collected. Decisive, but patient. Relying on instinct and almost thirty years of experience.

This time, too, she feels a twinge of anxiety. But it is different. Perhaps it is because of Darth Vader's recent visit to the dreadnaught, perhaps it is because of the recent losses - not that after the battle of Yavin anyone still dismisses the threat the Rebellion poses.

Perhaps it is because she could not help thinking of the past in the last few days, and it always makes her feel like a traitor. She has never been a Jedi, never made it to becoming a padawan – too weak in the Force, they said. Maybe whoever had tested her before bringing her to the Temple had made a mistake. But she stayed, and learned how to heal – using conventional methods mostly, because her Force connection is too weak even for that, and the only thing she can use it for is helping her patients calm down.

She was with a clone trooper unit during the Clone Wars, as a field medic, and they liked her well enough. Not as much fun as some girls, they said, but not as loud.

And then the world changed and she had no idea what to do with her life and herself. She survived Order 66 only because no one thought she had any connections to the Jedi.

She stayed with her team, comforting herself that her unit killed no Jedi. But there were no doubts in her mind that had there been a Jedi on the mission with them, they would have. Even if that kind of programming, as it turned out, took its toll on the troopers' mental health. She stopped thinking of them as clones very quickly – each had his little quirks and, most importantly, that need to be different, to have a personality that would define them – she thought of them as friends – and then she did not known what to think.

She stayed. She heals soldiers, because she has been doing that all her life and knows nothing else. She has never been a Jedi, not even close. There are billions of people in the galaxy who do not care whether it is the Republic or the Empire or something else entirely. But there are also those who care, and whenever she thinks of that, she feels like a traitor.

That, and... Weird things have been happening since the battle of Yavin. Or, more precisely, since the destruction of Alderaan. That was something even those with no Force sensitivity felt – nightmares, vivid nightmares of a thousand voices screaming in the darkness, of flashes of scorching heat and flame, she knows it well because many of the soldiers talked about it and sought the help of the resident counsellor. But she, with what little Force sensitivity she has, felt it. Wanted to talk about it, too, but could never find words. The whole galaxy frozen in terror and dread. The air like fire, merciless and suffocating. A beloved voice going hoarse in a short scream, and dying in a blast of burning wind. A hand in hers, flesh melting to the bone and then drying into ash in a blink of an eye. Countless souls scattered in the void in the cold light of distant stars. She wanted to talk about it, she still does, but how can she? The words she can find are never good enough.

It must have been Alderaan. A tear in the fabric of the universe, the Force. And then the soldiers started repeating strange tales, always in hushed whispers, reluctant to show fear, but more afraid of what they saw than of their superiors' wrath.

Footsteps echoing in empty corridors. Voices in the earphones when all the instruments clearly show no one is calling the frequency. The smell of smoke and burning flesh. The distant silhouettes of those killed and lost.

There have been many battles since the beginning of the Clone Wars, yes, but Alderaan tipped the scale. As if the galaxy – the Force – was telling them to stop... except that no one listens. And there are other, even stranger tales, of soldiers returning to protect their friends in the battles they fell in and of commanders returning to their posts to give their last orders.

"Atrill, if you want to take a nap, do so after the battle," the chief medic's crisp voice interrupts her musings. "Seris has just called, they want another medic on the bridge." Which is somehow excessive, but since that one captain died on the bridge because they did not get him to the medbay on time, some officers do not want to take that risk. "So you'd better hurry." The expression on his face softens a little. "Good luck there, kid." Doctor Karell, known among his staff simply as Doc, calls everyone kids. Even when those kids are already sporting some grey hair themselves.

She just nods, takes a medkit and hurries out of the room. One universal truth about the imperial officers is that they do not like waiting.

. . .

She runs the last few dozen metres, because the battle has already began while she was in the turbolift. And then stops in her track as soon as she reaches the bridge, frozen to the spot, staring at what everyone else in the area is staring at. An officer, giving orders. She can see his lips moving, but there is no sound. She can see the stars and enemy fighters through his rapidly gesturing hands, his uniform and face. She knows that face, back from the Clone Wars. Remembers healing a laser burn on his cheek, and she must have done a good job, because there is no trace of it. Not that it would matter to a ghost.

Fortunately, he disappears soon, and they somehow manage to survive the battle – not a victory, but not a defeat either. She can see the cautious glances and hear snippets of talks. Surprisingly, admiral Jarvis does not reprimand the soldiers, but simply stares at the now empty space in the middle of the bridge. He did not set his foot there during the battle. Something tells her he is in no hurry to do so.

She slips out into the corridor, unnoticed, and slowly walks towards the lift, not quite certain if she would rather be in the medbay or in her cabin, and tries very hard not to think about what she saw. So the stories are true. She was too shocked to notice it, but now, as she analyses the memory the way they taught her in the Temple, she can feel it – a smallest tug in the Force.

There is something under her boot, like sand – something distinctly different than the immaculate smooth surface of the metal floors – and she looks down. And stifles a scream against her hands when her brain registers the small pile of ash under her foot. She quickens her pace, desperately trying not to run. It is just exhaustion and shock, she tells herself, and while the strange sighting on the bridge was real, this cannot be.

. . .

"You look shaken," Doc observes gently, too quietly for others to hear.

"It's..." She tries to find words, but her voice comes out in a croak, and she gives up, shaking her head. "I'm sure you'll hear plenty about it in the cantina. And everywhere else."

Karell gives her a long glance, then nods slowly. "If you'll want to talk, you know where to find me," he offers, both out of duty – he is their counsellor as well as a medic – and out of concern for a member of his team. He looks down, at her boot. "Now, kid, trauma and all, I understand, but really, no dirty boots in my med bay."

"Yes, sir," she stammers, trying not to think that _it is real, too_ , trying not to think of the implication of that.

Doc sighs, rolling his eyes. "When was the last time you got some proper rest, eh?"

"But..." She tries to protest, but he interrupts her.

"No buts, Therani." He shakes a warning finger at her, disguising it as a joke, but he only calls her by her name and not 'kid' when he is serious. "You get a day off tomorrow. And now off you go."

She does, and tries to relax and rest, but she cannot sleep. Quietly, not to wake her bunkmate and fellow medic, Darmalia, she changes into her civilian clothes and walks out of the cabin.

. . .

There is a trooper standing guard by the lift, as he turns his head a little to the side as he watches her, surprised by her presence, but does not stop her.

"You're that medic, aren't you?" he asks. "You were on the bridge during the battle?"

"One of those medics, yes." She nods.

"Good." He pauses. "My bunkmate didn't believe when I told him that... you know." Soldiers, it seems, are a superstitious lot, but she finds it easy to understand.

"I'm sorry, I'd rather not talk about it." She gives him a faint smile. "Not yet, at least. Just came here to... Think things over."

He nods. "Go ahead. I'll let the others know you'll be around, they won't bother you."

"Thank you."

"No problem, lass." His voice sounds as if he was grinning under the helmet.

Ah, one of the old guard. She manages a more honest smile. "Bring your friend to the cantina sometime, and I'll tell him I saw everything, too," she promises.

"Tomorrow evening?" he asks.

"We're there almost every night. Hard to miss us medics. Usually people shout at us to stop telling all the grisly medical jokes, because we spoil their appetite." With a final brief smile, she walks away.

He will probably not bring his friend after all. And she does not mind. But now, she has to focus on something else.

. . .

She walks the corridors for quite a long time, but finds nothing. And then she recalls something and wants to slap her hand against her forehead for not thinking about it earlier. Turning around, she goes to the turbolift and two levels down.

There is small memorial room on that level, and for some reason someone though it would be a great idea to put a certain piece of metal debris there. A splinter of the first Death Star.

The cabin is almost empty – a simple metal bench, a transparisteel panel covering almost one entire wall – space and stars behind it – and the remaining three walls are background to one big screen, long, endless lists of names flickering in and out of sight.

She sits down on the bench, waiting, not daring to try to reach into the Force, just thinking. It would have been poetic justice, she notes bitterly, if they had lost yesterday's battle because of him. Looks at the names on the screen, tries to count them, thinks of Alderaan and then tries to stop thinking, shaking her head. Stars – Force – what is she doing here? Why has it even occurred to her?

Because she remembers the Clone Wars and the Republic Admiral who was demanding and harsh, but never that ruthless, remembers the troops from her unit both admiring him and fearing him a little, and wonders what has happened during those years since. What it takes to turn a man into...

There is no sound, just a faint smell of smoke and crisp clean uniform. Slowly, she opens her eyes, hands tightening on the edges of the bench seat until her knuckles go white, because suddenly she is afraid. The dead will not hurt you, someone told her once. It is the living you should fear. The words do little to comfort her know.

A tall, lean silhouette is walking out of the cabin with quick, purposeful steps. She has not seen him in person since the Clone Wars, has only seen holos, but still recognises the proud, slightly stiff set of his shoulders.

She is a medic. Healing is the only thing she knows. This is for the troops who are afraid, she tells herself, and not to alleviate her own fears. Certainly not for... Whomever it is for, she needs answers. And to get those, she needs to ask questions.

Would he hear her, she wonders. Would he talk? How does one talk to a ghost?

She must call him before he disappears. But how? The man he died as would not necessarily give her answers, perhaps would not even listen to her. But years ago, there was a different man. Perhaps... No, that is insane. She stifles a hysterical laugh. She wants to talk to a kriffing ghost. It cannot get any more insane than it already is.

Slowly, she gets up, her heart trembling. She is willing to bet there will be new threads of grey in her hair after this, she really is.

"Admiral Tarkin?" she calls quietly, not expecting a reaction.

He stops and turns, and she gasp as during that one swift move his hair goes from grey to auburn, and his uniform changes, too. He blinks, startled, then knits his eyebrows, staring at her with his piercing eyes.

"Do I know you?"


	2. Chapter 2

-2-

"The skirmish in Patriim?" she prompts, finding her voice at last. She has to speak quietly to keep it from shaking, and sincerely hopes that she is not staring.

He frowns in concentration, and then recognition flashes in his eyes, now even more striking than they were in life. "Ah, of course. Medic Therani, was it?"

"Atrill," she corrects in discomfort. "Therani is my given name." But no wonder he would make the mistake, when all the troopers called her that.

He watches her closely, eyes focused on her face. "Shouldn't you be younger?"

"Patriim was twenty years ago, admiral."

That shocks him, and his eyes widen momentarily. She loses track of thought then, because when he moves towards the window there are stars visible through his eyes, and the eerie sight is oddly mesmerising.

He shakes his head. "I think I would remember if twenty years have passed," he says, and she wonders just how big a mistake she made when she called him 'admiral'.

"They have," she says, softly, hoping that tone would conceal her hesitation. "And..."

Apparently, she does not have enough presence to keep his attention for long enough to be able to decide how to put in words that twenty years have indeed passed, that he died, oh, and that he destroyed a whole planet.

"Those names..." He looks around, at the letters flickering on the screens. "What is this? That many casualties? Unthinkable." His voice is cold and she remembers that he has always been a harsh judge.

"It happens when the biggest space station is blown into space dust," she replies.

His eyes narrow. "Mouthing off to an admiral might not be the wisest course of action, Miss Atrill," he warns. Something in his voice tells her that no matter the state he is in, this is not an empty threat. But in the end, his curiosity wins over everything else. "How big was that station?"

"The size of a small moon." She gives him an odd look. "Strange that you don't remember, admiral. You were its commander." Momentarily, she hesitates. "And blew a planet away with it," she adds in a whisper.

He just stares at her in disbelief. "A planet?" he echoes. "But that's impossible. Not to mention it's a ridiculous notion."

She glances away, and then looks back at him, not knowing what to do. So she called him and he answered, and they are talking, and now what? Is she supposed to just say goodbye and leave? What would be the point of asking him further questions when he does not even remember?

"This doesn't make much sense, Miss Atrill," he says sternly. "Those things you talk of... If we had such technology, we would have used it during the war. But it's impossible. And I don't remember anything of those twenty years that have supposedly passed..."

There are footsteps in the corridor. She turns to see who it is, and when she glances back, the room is empty.

"You must come here often, don't you?" asks admiral Jarvis's deep voice. He meets her questioning gaze. "With all the soldiers that die in the med bay," he explains.

"Ah... No, it's not that. Just..." She shakes her head, not knowing how to say it, especially to him.

Jarvis is not a bad man, but he is too uncertain in his rank yet, and it shows – he tries too hard, his reprimands are too harsh. He is desperately trying to gain more authority, but he does not necessarily choose the best means to do so. It goes without saying that it does not help his popularity, and while people follow his orders without question, he is not liked very much. He might be a commander, but he is not a leader.

He nods, with surprisingly much understanding. "I think we're all a bit shaken by that," he admits. "Makes you think of life and death, I guess."

"Something like that," she mutters, smiling tightly. "I won't be disturbing you, admiral," she adds, nods to him respectfully and leaves.

. . .

Since she is not able to find any rest – too many images hover under her eyelids whenever she closes her eyes, all of them much too vivid for her liking – she goes to the med bay. Most of the soldiers are back in their cabins, as their injuries are not very serious. Except for the twelve fighter pilots who got blasted out of the sky – out of space – because the command was too preoccupied with a ghost on the bridge, and two that died during the night, but she knew from the beginning that they were beyond help.

But at least she can go there, clean the place up, check the supplies, do all those menial tasks that can clear the mind so wonderfully. Besides, if she is to have any company, Doc's will be acceptable. They have known each other for twenty five years – more than half of her life – and even if they are not exactly friends, they are family by now. He has seen enough in his life to understand much without having to ask any questions, and today, she will be grateful for silence. Besides, he often has a bottle of brandy stashed away somewhere in his desk, and she would be grateful for that, too.

When she enters the med bay, Doc glances at her at her from his desk, visible through a transparisteel pane, frowns at her decision to waste her day off in the med bay anyway, but just shakes his head and returns to work. He knows trying to dissuade her would be of no use.

The main room is clean and smells of disinfectants; the night shift left everything in order. Briefly, she wonders when Doc finds any time for sleep, but ever since she met him he has never slept more than six hours a day, and keeps functioning pretty well, so perhaps that is just his peculiar talent.

Pressing her lips together, she turns to another room. It does not look very typical for a med bay – there are beds and equipment and all, but also a wide window, taking up almost an entire wall. This is the room where they put those soldiers who have no chance of survival, give them painkillers and adrenals, and just try to make their last moments bearable. She was the one who insisted on the window, and Doc backed her up, and his argument with Jarvis – a captain back then – must have been heard by the entire ship. But it paid off. She knows many considered it a whim, but she still remembers a soldier from the Clone Wars – Shooter, their sniper, who caught a nasty fever while they were down on some swampy planet - who said how soothing the stars were – he died on a cloudy, rainy evening, without seeing his beloved stars for the last time. That was why she thought of the window in the first place, and usually, when she goes to that cabin, a sad smile appears on her lips as she thinks of her dead friend.

The soldiers, in a display of war humour that rivalled even the gruesomeness of some jokes of the medical staff, called the room the mortuary. It was out of fear, she knows, and the best way to combat fear is by laughter. That is how they live, laughing at everything they can, and how they try to die, laughing death in the face. She knows all too well how often they pass away with tears of fear or regret or moans of pain, or just in resignation, but never said it to anyone except for Doc, during of their more philosophical discussions.

She presses the button to open the door, expecting to find the room empty and clean, and just wanting to check everything. And when the door opens she freezes in place and gasps, trying to catch her breath, because the sight before her squeezes all the air from her lungs.

There is a soldier on the bed, his burns so terrible she can tell instantly he will not make it, and she marvels how it is possible that he is still alive. The skin on his face and neck has all the colours except those it should have, all charred, his hair is singed, and his eyes are blind. His uniform is black, half-molten into flesh, and his hands... Force, his hands... Two open wounds, a mass of blood and ash, skin and muscle on his fingers burned away, revealing bones.

Without thinking, she rushes to help. It is an instinct, stronger than dread and nausea.

"I will help you," she says softly, trying to focus on finding the proper adrenal shot, but she cannot help the wave of compassion that floods her. And even with her weak Force connection, this close she can _feel_ his pain, like a heavy rain. But he does not even make a sound, except for shaking, laboured breaths, and he is still, just turns his head slightly towards her when she speaks.

Carefully, she stuffs the adrenal shot into the syringe, and approaches him in quick, decisive footsteps. Why has Doc not taken care of him, she wonders, angered. No, Doc would never... Was it possible that the soldier got in here unnoticed? No, absolutely not. Ah, so probably he has been there since last evening, and got some painkillers at night, but they have worn off.

She looks at him, trying to think of a way to get to under the uniform – no wonder they did not take it off, though, it would have only caused even more pain – and find a vein to insert the needle into.

Finally she notices a spot on his left arm, where the uniform has burnt and ripped off, but the skin underneath is mostly intact.

"This may hurt a bit," she says softly, and reaches out to hold his arm as she readies the syringe... And gasps loudly as her hand _passes through_ the outline of his arm.

He turns his head towards the voice, brows knitting in concentration over unseeing eyes.

She wants to flee, but she is frozen to the spot and cannot move, can barely breathe. She wants to get out of the room and never come back but somehow she knows that it would not help. Somehow at some point this morning she did something that made him appear at a place he has no connection with, but she has. Somehow at some point she has gotten herself into another grand mess.

Her gaze moves over his form, assessing the injuries. If he were alive, no amount of bacta would help. It would just be adrenals to keep the pain at bay and smooth out his passage, make his last moments a bit more comfortable. But of course traditional means will not help a ghost.

And then a thought strikes her. A ghost's form is not a physical one. So perhaps if she used her soothing Force trick, it might help. At least it is worth a try, she thinks, because if she does not do something they will stay like that for Force knows how long.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and concentrates, and experimentally moves a careful hand over his eyes. He blinks slowly, and the white fades away a little, revealing the familiar icy blue. He looks at her face with such focus that she cannot withstand it and glances away.

From the corner of her eye she can see his lips move as he tries to speak, but no voice comes out – the injuries to his neck are too severe, and there are no longer any properly functioning vocal chords he could use.

But it is clear he wants to say something, probably something important, too, otherwise he would not bother. His terribly marred hand reaches up towards hers – the sight is grisly, but she has seen many similar sights in her career, and while it is unpleasant and sends a cold shiver down her spine, she can bear it, because she knows she will not feel anything.

Except that this time, she does. Burnt flesh, dense wetness of drying blood, a smear of warm ash, and _the bones_ digging into her skin as he tightens his grip. She flinches away violently, jumps back, dropping the syringe, which hits the metal floor with a single clear clink, her own scream echoing in her ears as she closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to shut everything out.

"Are you all right?" asks Doc's concerned voice from the threshold.

When she opens her eyes, she is alone in the room, save for Doc, no traces of anything except for the broken glass on the floor... and a small stain of ash and blood on her palm. She curls her hand into a fist in an attempt to hide it, blinking and shaking her head, trying to get a grip on herself.

Doc comes closer, reaches out, but after one glance at her face he hesitates and – thankfully – does not touch her. She is not certain how she would react if he did.

"What is it, Thera?" he asks, really worried now, because he calls her by name only when things get serious. "You look like death."

"It's... I..." With a start, she realises she is shaking. "Oh, Force," she just sighs.

Doc gives her a long look. "Come on," he says at last. "I have a bottle of Corellian brandy hidden in my desk. You could use a drink right now. Ah, no protests," he adds, when he notices she opens her mouth. "Doctor's orders."


	3. Chapter 3

-3-

"It was him again, wasn't it?" asks Doc one glass of brandy later.

She nods. "Though I had no idea at first... He..." she breaks off and shudders at the mere thought. "You know how he died," she finishes at last. "You can imagine how he looked."

"Yes," confirms Doc curtly.

"I wonder, why our ship? There's like an entire fleet to choose from and..."

"Not just our ship," Doc interrupts. "I've checked the intranet news. Eleven sightings across the fleet, and two in Hockaleg ground base. And that's just Tarkin alone." Doc takes a sip of brandy from his glass. "Not counting all other phenomena, like hearing footsteps in empty corridors, items lying in different places when no one moved them and so on. There's all kinds of stories whispered among the troops, it's just that no one repeats them aloud."

She smiles mirthlessly. "I'm surprised they even whisper."

Doc shrugs. "And why not? Force phenomena is something than can only strengthen the Emperor's power. And Vader's. It reminds people of things they should never forget... And the younglings who have never seen a Jedi will learn something important, too."

Having no reply to that, she just nods. Doc is right. He usually is. He might be gruff, but she never doubted his wisdom, even if it is bitter sometimes. But it can also be surprisingly idealistic.

The silence prolongs, getting heavier by the minute. Doc's eyes are fixed on his glass; he is deliberately avoiding her gaze. She knows him well by now, knows his quirks and faces. There is something important he is not telling her. Something he feels he should mention, but does not want to tell her.

"Doc?" she asks softly, hoping it will encourage him to speak.

He sighs, and it seems all the energy leaves him when he exhales. If she is exhausted, there are no words to describe how he must feel. Her heart goes out to him, even though she knows he would scold her if she said anything or tried to comfort him. So she does not even try, just appreciates that he trusts her enough to let her see him without any mask. She is probably the only person who knows all his moods, just as he knows all of hers. They are like siblings, like father and daughter, mentor and student, closest of friends, partners for life – he is reliable and strong like durasteel.

"Doc?" she repeats, feeling a cold shiver running down her spine.

He looks up, brows furrowed. "They're moving us to Patriim," he says at last. "Jarvis was given the command of our base on Hockaleg, and he's taking the ship and the crew with him." Doc gives her a concerned look, and she can sense his hesitation.

"What is it that you're not telling me?" She asks.

"It's classified," he replies, as if that explained everything. He gulps down the remaining alcohol and sets the glass down on the table with more force than necessary. "Kriff, whatever, you're all see what it's about once we arrive there anyway... Another mighty superweapon project. Based on the Death Star, but upgraded." He pauses. "I'm sure you'll be thrilled to know they call it _Tarkin_ ," he adds quietly.

She mutters a curse, one of those usually heard at space ports, then shakes her head. "Stars, I really do fail at my life choices..." she groans.

Doc pats her shoulder encouragingly. "You've got your heart in the right place, kid," he comforts. "You should just have a little bit more brains in the right place to go with it."

"Stuff it, Doc," she scoffs. He does not mean that she is stupid, and she knows he appreciates her quick thinking, and she can be very logical, too. Unfortunately, she is also impulsive, and feelings – compassion, mostly, nothing gets her into as much trouble as that – take precedence. "When are we moving?"

"A weeks or two, at most. All the arrangements are made, and they don't want to wait too long so that the crew won't find out before we're there." He gives her a close look. "Be careful, Thera," he says quietly, calling her by name, and by that she knows how seriously he takes it. "Be careful. There are some things we're not supposed to meddle with."

"Yes. Yes, I know." That is precisely what she is afraid she did. "You think I meddled?"

"You tell me." He reaches for the bottle to refill their glasses, grimaces when she stops him, but does not shake her hand off and withdraws his, leaving the bottle alone.

"I don't know." She turns, glancing at the stars behind a transparisteel pane. "But I fear I might have done something... made a mistake..." She shrugs, trying to shake that weird feeling off. "Doesn't matter now, does it? It's not like it can be undone."

Doc just shakes his head. "You wouldn't listen to advice anyway, would you?"

She smiles faintly. "I always listen. Just not always heed it."

He raises his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Then at least try to get some sleep. Morning shift tomorrow, and no preferential treatment."

. . .

"I think I stole your date," Darmalia confesses when she enters, bustling around their cabin to get her things, getting ready for the night shift. "That guy who was supposed to bring his friend so that you could tell him something, or something like that?" she explains, seeing the confusion on Therani's face. "He's one of those more seasoned soldiers, but he's still quite handsome and..." She smiles, then almost blushes, her discomfort visible. "Sorry about that, but he was waiting for you and you weren't there, and he recognised I'm a medic, too, and asked about you, and we started talking and..."

It is not Darmalia's fault, she thinks, just her own terrible life choices. "It's fine," she reassures, and even manages an encouraging smile. "So how was it"?

"We just talked, you know..." Darmalia actually blushes. "He's really funny. Can do orobird screeches and other funny bird noises. Says that's why they call him Chirp."

"Chirp?" She feels a sudden warmth in her chest as memories of the past flash through her mind. Difficult battles and evenings beside a fire, and the troopers asking her and Doc about every tale they could recall, because they had none of their own yet. Those evenings at some Force-forgotten backwater planets were the rare times she felt at home. Jokes and stories and songs... Songs... She pushes the memories away, not without an effort, even after all the years.

"You know him?" Darmalia asks, curious.

Surprisingly, she laughs. "I was one of the medics in his unit during the Clone Wars. And yes, he does all sorts of funny bird noises." She smiles. "Say hello for me next time you meet him, all right?"

"Why, say hello yourself." The younger medic grins. "We're meeting tomorrow evening, for dinner – well, breakfast for me. I'm sure he'd be happy to see you."

She smiles, despite herself. Darmalia seems to have that effect on people.

"All right. I'll try. And if I won't be able to, say hello for me."

"I won't, so you'll have to go yourself." Darmalia grins again, then glances at the chrono. "Stars, it's so late already? Have to go, or Doc will give me double shifts... 'Night, sweet dreams." With a wave and another smile, Darmalia is gone.

She goes to the refresher, wishes they could have normal showers instead of the sonic ones – she could really use some nice hot water right now. Or a bath... Ah, one can dream. She cannot remember when was the last time she had a real bath, hot water, scented soap and oils... She shakes her head, drying herself with a big towel that used to be fluffy a couple of years ago. No point in dwelling on such foolish things like a bath.

She puts on her nightgown and goes to bed, intending to go to sleep, but her gaze falls on a chest standing in the corner, and she stops, hesitating. Twenty years ago, she vowed to bury the memories, because she could not go on reliving them every day. And yet... And yet...

For a moment, she wishes she could see him, even like that, even for a while. Then she scolds herself for the thought. It is a good thing that she cannot see him. It means he is at peace. She wants him to be at peace, and happy, and free of worries. No matter how terribly she still misses him.

She moves, kneels beside the chest and opens it. Under two piles of neatly folded clothes, there is a smooth wooden box. Slowly, she reaches inside, her fingers gently moving across the wood. When she closes her eyes, she can see it in his hands – can see his hands, moving above the instrument with such feeling as if he was playing on the starlight strings of the galaxy itself – can hear the melody, hear his voice... When he sang a merry tune, he always made them smile, and when he sang a nostalgic ballad, all troopers cried. And when...

She moves away abruptly, shutting the chest. There are some memories she will never be ready to relive, to recall. Because, even after twenty years, it still hurts almost as much as it did then. Because that loss is a wound in her heart that will never heal.

Slowly, she gets up and walks over to the bed. She desperately needs sleep. And sleep is the only medicine that seems to help against the memories.

She sits on the mattress, moves her hand over to the pillow... and snatches it away when she feels something warm beneath her fingers. Ashes. Still _warm_.

Her other hand flies to her mouth as she stifles a scream. Stars – Force – what has she gotten herself into? Is this going to continue? For how long? Until she loses her mind?

Breathing deeply, she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her composure enough to be able to go out of her cabin, find Doc and ask him for some sleeping pills. She could get some herself, of course, but it would require explanations later, as they are not supposed to prescribe their own medicines. But Doc will not ask questions, not after the talk they had earlier that day.

A final deep breath, and she opens her eyes, get up and turns to the door... And freezes in place, because the ghost looks nothing like a ghost this time, but just as solid as he did in life, features equally harsh. Only his eyes are more striking, and it is difficult not to squirm under his watchful gaze.

Grand Moff Tarkin crosses his arms behind his back and frowns. "I do know you. We've met before." There is a look of concentration on his face. "Patriim, wasn't it?" His frown deepens. "And somewhere else, twenty years ago... You looked exactly the same as you do now. But at the skirmish in Patriim you looked younger. How is that possible?" he demands.

She has not slept properly in two days now, there has been a battle, and it is her third encounter with a ghost – a kriffing _ghost_ – and suddenly she finds that she is more tired that frightened. After all, she is not twenty anymore.

"It's a long story. And complicated..."

His eyes flash. "I do believe it will not be beyond my comprehension, nor my intellectual capabilities." There is an edge to his tone; a warning. There were all kinds of tales of how intimidating he was as the Grand Moff, and, listening to him now, she can easily believe them.

"No, that is certainly not the case," she assures hastily. "What I meant is that it might be beyond mine."

His eyebrows rise as he glances a question at her.

"It's... You... You're dead," she blurts out finally, because there is really no subtle way to tell someone he is not alive any longer.

"Yes, I gathered as much." His eyes narrow. "Which means time is not an issue, is it?" he adds in a low voice that chills her to the bone.


End file.
